


A Song of Wind and Wings

by triedunture



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Angelborn have not been seen in Westeros in hundreds of years. Lord Dean Winchester and his brother Ser Sam arrive in Lady Ellen's Highroad Keep after receiving word that one has been taken captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song of Wind and Wings

**Title:** A Song of Wind and Wings  
 **Pairing:** Dean/Castiel  
 **Characters:** Dean, Sam, Castiel, Ellen, Jo, Ash  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Length:** 10,000 words  
 **Beta:** [](http://brokentoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**brokentoy**](http://brokentoy.livejournal.com/) , thank you so muh-uh-uh-uch!  
 **Warnings:** Game of Thrones AU, but if you're not familiar with Game of Thrones, you can read it as a fantasy!AU instead. Also slight wing!kink.  
 **Summary:** The Angelborn have not been seen in Westeros in hundreds of years. Lord Dean Winchester and his brother Ser Sam arrive in Lady Ellen's Highroad Keep after receiving word that one has been taken captive.

<><><><>  
  
The dungeons of House Harvelle were damp with slime mold, tucked away as they were beneath the caverns that made up the interior of the Highroad Keep. The worn heel of Lord Winchester's boot slipped in the muck, causing him to lose his fabled balance for a split second before being righted by a quick hand. Ser Samuel, the younger of the surviving Winchesters, was there as always at his sibling's side to see him through.

"The Others take Harvelle," Dean cursed, squinting into the long expanse of darkness. The light from Sam's torch wavered in a cold draft. "She could have brought the prisoner up to the solar instead of having us traipse through this mess."

"You should be thankful Lady Ellen sent her raven to us instead of keeping her secret guarded," Samuel pointed out with mild rebuke. "If her claim proves true, this is a mighty advantage for our forces in the war against the Others and the King Beyond the Wall." Sam's jaw tightened at the name, even one as oblique as that.

Dean eyed his brother's face in the flickering shadows. It hadn't been a year yet since Samuel had returned from that frozen hellscape to the north of the great Wall, where he'd been a captive of the deranged Azazel, the one smallfolk called Yellow-Eyes, commander of the army of undead. Sam had managed to escape, but not before being tortured for word of Westeros's defenses. Dean was glad enough to have his brother returned safe to Hunterfell, but Samuel would not rest until the demon-king Azazel was defeated, he knew.

He clasped his brother briefly by the arm, a small gesture of shared strength. "His head will be yours, either by my sword or you own," Dean swore.

They turned a bend and saw the end of the tunnel, which was guarded by a filthy watchman dressed in boiled leather and a ragged cloth cap over his straggly hair. "Who comes?" he called.

"The brothers of Hunterfell, Lord Dean Winchester and Ser Samuel, by leave of Lady Ellen," Sam returned. He pushed his travelling cloak over one shoulder to reveal the black Impala on the green field of his tunic, the sigil of House Winchester, so chosen for its quickness and strength. Dean scowled, preferring not to give their names to the unwashed.

The watchman spat on the ground and leaned on his pike. "And I'm Ser Ash," he taunted. "I heard tell of you two. Sellswords, weren't ya, before being gifted your own seat? How goes it, being pretty little lowborn lords?"

"Near the feeling of a swordpoint in your belly. Would you like to see?" Dean growled, a hand on his shortsword's pommel. Sam stayed him with a curt cut of his hand.

"We were hired hunters, that much is true," Sam replied. "But we saved the lives of lowborn and highborn alike, and we never asked for more payment than could be spared. The payment for saving the life of King Robert of Singer's nephews, however...."

"Believe us, _Ser_ , we dislike the titles on us as much as you do. But they grant us leave to see your prisoner." Dean inclined his head toward the heavy oaken door, his fingers never leaving the hilt of his sword. Ash stared openly at the shortsword in its tooled scabbard, and Dean snorted, following his gaze. "Yes, it's the famed blade Silverstrike, and it has killed more direbeasts and manwolves than I care to count. Men too, when I have a mind."

"The door, if you would," Samuel pressed, and the watchman fumbled for the keys at his belt.

"Don't step inside the circle," was all the advice Ash gave as he shut the door behind them.

The cell was small and windowless, carved into the rock of the Keep's foundation and smelling as foul as a cesspool. Sam placed his torch in the bracket mounted on the rock wall; there was no need for it here, not with the cell illuminated by the bright ring of Holy Fire.

Inside the circle knelt the shape of a man, but it was no man. It was an Angelborn, its huge white wings stretching across the diameter of its blazing prison, feathers streaked with dirt and blood. He appeared male; though the stories painted Angelborns as those without sex, this one's broad chest and shoulders were obvious beneath the layers of studded leather and polished ringmail. His boots were supple tan leather inlaid with shining scroll-work. He wore over his battle leathers a tunic of white silk with the sigil of the Heavenly Host worked in gold over his heart. The triple cross, a mark not seen in the Seven Kingdoms for centuries.

"By the Stranger." Samuel was fond of invoking his preferred god-face.

"Fuck," was Dean's answer. "There's no bringing him to the solar like this, I see."

The Angelborn raised his eyes, an unearthly blue lit by the dancing flames. His fine dark hair was mussed, his face pale and expressionless. Though his wrists were bound behind his back, he knelt proud as a king.

"So Ellen spoke true," Dean murmured. He stalked round the prisoner, who held his gaze for the entirety of his inspection. "The feather-breeds still live. What do they call you, angel?"

No reply.

"How many of your kind still walk the land?" Sam asked.

The Angelborn did not open his mouth.

Dean stepped closer to the circle of Holy Fire, bending near but not over the flames. The angel returned his stare. "Do you really keep nothing in your smallclothes save a roll of dry woolens?" he muttered. "You look like a cock-owning man to me." His eyes flicked down to the seams of the Angelborn's leather breeches.

The winged warrior twitched, his arms jerking against his bonds in an aborted strike.

"Dean!" Sam said sharply. "Whatever this angel may be, he is to be treated with honor. We're hunters, not wildlings."

The angel's eyes widened at that, his gaze darting between them like a rabbit. "Dean?" he rasped, his voice the sound of a whetstone moving over a dull blade. "Lord Winchester? The one they call Sellslord?"

"To my back, if not my face." The elder brother straightened with a sigh. "My towering little brother is right. My apologies, angel. We only want to know if your kind can work half the magic the legends say."

The captive's manacles clanked behind his back. "Release me from this ring of fire and we'll see," he grated in his stony voice.

Dean's bark of laughter rang off the cavern walls. "I'm no fool. That fire is the only thing that can hold you, just as the stories said."

Samuel approached from the right, his eyes tracking the length of one fluttering wing. "We do not wish to see you imprisoned," he said, "but you are not our captive. It is only through our friendship with Lady Ellen that we've come to offer you a path to freedom. Join our fight against the army of Others and we will see you released."

The angel dropped his eyes to the hard ground. "And spend how many years bloodying my hands for you? No, Winchester. I will not be your warrior slave," he growled.

"One battle," Dean hissed, surging forward with his eyes afire. "That is all we ask. When Yellow-Eyes lies dead at our feet, you will be granted safe passage back to your people." The feathered one tensed, his wings pressing close behind his back with a rattle of chains.

"If that is where you wish to be," Samuel said quietly, his eyes searching the Angelborn's drawn features. His gaze flicked to Dean's, and they spoke in the silent language of brothers forged in battle. The message was clear: this angel was running. Why else would an Angelborn appear in the Seven Kingdoms after all this time, if not in desperate flight for his life?

"Come, Dean," Sam spoke again, "we should give Ellen's guest time to consider our proposal." He rapped on the heavy oaken door, and Ash opened it for them. Dean spared one final glance over his shoulder, watching the Angelborn kneeling gracefully on the hard stone.

"He will never agree to it," Dean muttered as soon as they turned the corner, well out of the guardsman's hearing. "He fears something greater than Ellen's dungeon."

"Perhaps," Sam conceded, "but we must try. An ally like that could mean our salvation."

"He refused to speak his name." They climbed the winding steps that led from the dungeons to the stable yard, passing the various knights and serving girls that bustled through the Keep. "How do we win an ally who will not give me even that?" Dean asked, his fingers gripping the carved hilt of Silverstrike in frustration.

"It could be you'll need to give him something first." Sam shrugged, jostling his beaten lobstered shoulder-guard. "The Stranger only knows what he may desire, though."

"I will try to find out tonight. Will you misplace the guard? Say, at midnight?" Dean asked in a low voice.

"Consider it done," Sam returned. "Though I doubt Lady Ellen would begrudge you another meeting with her prisoner."

"Yes, but there are always eyes watching and ears hearing when guards are at the door, even smelly ones. It may be our heavenly visitor will find his tongue if we are alone." They turned around the bend in the stone pathway, heading up the drawbridge and thorough the mists of the Traveler's Tears, which tumbled from the high rocky point of the Kneeling Mountain. The brothers entered the Keep's training grounds just as Joanna, Lady Ellen's daughter, put an iron bolt through the center of the far target with her crossbow.

"Midnight, then," Sam whispered before raising his voice in greeting. "Excellent shot, Jo!"

"Thank you, Ser," Jo called back dryly. "It's shots like this that bring down angels. They'll be writing songs about it soon, I'm sure."

She hefted her crossbow over her shoulder and wandered over to the brothers, leaving the line of soldiers practicing at their targets. Lady Joanna was dressed in men's clothing as was her custom, boiled leather and a linen tunic in Harvelle blue. Her golden hair was twisted into a braided bun at the nape of her neck; she had wanted to chop it short for raids, but her lady mother wouldn't have it. Ellen was still praying for her daughter to leave the warrior's path, but there were no more male heirs at Highroad Keep, and Jo had grown to womanhood with a dirk between her teeth and a sword in her hands despite Ellen's wishes.

"You were the one who took the Angelborn?" Dean lifted a brow. "You're right. They will sing songs. They'll say the feather-breed flew closer to find out whether you were man or woman, and was captured when he couldn't get close enough."

Jo punched Dean's shoulder hard enough to bruise, though he laughed instead of flinched, dancing away from her next strike.

"Call me a twixt-sex all you like," Jo said. "You'll still beg me to lead your vanguard when your men see _you_ and wonder what a pretty maid is doing dressed in mail."

"That is true." Dean smiled at their usual jest. He had fought beside Jo many times and, saving Samuel, there was no knight he'd rather have at his side. Joanna had learned her craft from water dancers beyond the sea, swordsmen whose lithe bodies and willowy limbs became an advantage in their style. She was an unusual sight at a tourney, but Jo was as deadly as any. Dean was not surprised she had defeated an Angelborn; she fought with her brain, not just her sword arm.

"Tell us," Sam said, "how did you capture him? Holy oil is not something one often carries on a hunt."

Jo dropped her voice and leaned in to share her secret. "I remembered the tales Nan used to tell about the angels, that they could be hobbled by gold the way manwolves and direbeats are weak against silver."

"Gold?" Dean frowned. "The manacles on his wrists were iron."

Jo nodded. "A mummer's farce for the townsfolk as we brought him to the Keep. Beneath the iron, wrapped round his perfect hands, is the gold necklace my mother is always pressing me to wear beneath my doublet. 'A woman should wear a bit of shine, Joanna,' she says, and I suppose she was right." Jo tipped back her head and laughed from her belly.

Lord Winchester watched her and wished, not for the first time, that things stood differently between them. Lady Ellen had offered him a marriage contract with her daughter four times, and four times Dean had refused. He loathed the idea of leaving a wife and children behind should he die while hunting, and he hated even more the thought of forcing Jo to lay down her sword. She would kill him in their marriage bed if it came to that. "My brother will be my heir," he had said to all who asked. "Which is fitting, considering I raised him."

If only Jo didn't have hunting in her blood; but then, she wouldn't be Jo, and Dean would care for her no more than any other silk-and-lace girl.

"You did well. A fine victory," Sam said with a smile.

"Yes, very fine." Dean gave his brother an imperceptible sign with his hand. "And now, I believe we should scrub ourselves of the road dust." They gave their farewells and parted.

That night, Dean crept from his quarters and descended the dungeon steps again. His brother had done as promised; the guard was nowhere to be found, but the heavy door stood unlocked. Dean pushed it open, wide enough for the Angelborn to see there were no men without.

The prisoner raised his head and regarded Dean with his blazing blue eyes, saying nothing. Dean threw back the hood of his cloak and revealed the parcels he held.

"I didn't know what angels eat," he said, "so I brought some bread and hard cheese."

The Angelborn stared at the offered food. "I do not require sustenance. I have asked the guards not to bring me anything."

"No?" A remarkable skill, useful in a dungeon. Dean unclasped his cloak and laid it out on the stone floor a horse-span or so away from the fire, sitting on it with his legs crossed like a peasant. He tore a chunk from the loaf of bread with his teeth and chewed loudly. "I have a notion, angel, that our first meeting was ill done."

The winged warrior stared silently as Dean chewed.

"You have heard the stories about me," Dean continued with a wry smile. "I trust I do not play the hero in many of the Angelborn's songs. I am a lowborn and made my fortune as a sword-for-hire, that I do not deny. But I love my people, and I will defend them from this oncoming storm with my dying breath."

He ripped another crust from the loaf and offered it to the angel. The captive glanced at it but shook his head. Dean shrugged and stuffed it in his mouth. "I do not expect you to unsheathe your sword for a land you do not know or care for—if the Angelborn even fight with swords. Do you wield a blade or some other weapon? Jo didn't say."

The Angelborn's throat worked soundlessly before he grated out, "My sword was taken from me."

"Does it have a name?" Dean asked. No answer. "Do you?"

When he was met with silence once more, Lord Winchester heaved a sigh and took a bite of his hard cheese. "I wish to know only so I may address you with honor. You will see no trickery from me, not in this."

The prisoner lifted his head, his eyes shining, and spoke. "I am called Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Seraph of the White Garrison and Protector of the Fourth Day."

"Hm. That weighs on the tongue," Dean said, swallowing. "I have half a mind to call you Cas instead."

Castiel balked at that, his brow furrowing in distaste. Dean chuckled. "I wasn't meant as an affront. You may call me Dean if you like; my longer titles are too heavy for the mouth to hold, I think."

"I do not trust humans," Castiel growled, "and I do not count any as friends, so do not paint yourself as one."

"Fine." Dean dusted the breadcrumbs from his palms and held them out, open and empty. "You don't want food. You don't want a friend. What do you want, Castiel? What can I do to convince you to take up arms with me, not against me?" The angel's lips formed a hard, closed line. Dean stood and approached the fire, his footfalls echoing loudly. "If only I could show you the towns on the Highroad, the snows in Hunterfell, the children playing in the Riverbend, perhaps then you would see why this land is worth defending." He hesitated at the edge of the flames, which licked into the air only as high as mid-calf. "But I cannot make a man love what he does not love. So what can I provide? What aid might I give you?"

Castiel's eyes hardened as Dean stepped over the leaping fire and stood within the circle. The Lord of Hunterfell raised his hand in a peaceful gesture. "Be calm. I won't—"

Before he could even finish, the angel was on his feet, his face a mask of rage. His bloodied wings snapped forward, crushing against Dean on either side and holding him pinned in place. The stench of the mildew of the prison filled Dean's nostrils, but also the underlying scent of rivers and gardens that seemed to belong to the Angelborn. The fool guards, Dean thought, they should have restrained the creature's wings as well as his hands.

"I am weakened," Castiel said in a low whisper, "but I have strength enough to snap your bones, Winchester." The wings pressed closer. Dean strained for breath.

"Kill me now and you will still be trapped in this Holy Fire," he gasped out, "with the blood of a lord on your hands. Lady Ellen's decision will be made. And her executioner is not well seasoned."

Castiel's blue eyes blazed into Dean's for a long moment before softening with defeat. His wings sagged away, and Dean's lungs filled with air once more.

"I should not be imprisoned," Castiel whispered. "I committed no crime, save that of having wings. You ask me what I want from you, Lord of Hunterfell? I want my freedom. I want to be far from here."

"Where?" Dean questioned, rubbing his bruised arm. "Where would you travel?"

The Angelborn gazed into the dark shadows of the cavern, his face drawn in sorrow. "Away from all I know."

Dean was no stranger to that look. He'd seen it on the faces of the lost, the abandoned, the orphaned, and the hopeless. "My father was killed when Samuel was still high-voiced and I was too small to lift a greatsword," he said, though he had told this tale to no living soul before. "The Others robbed him of his life, and I of my only protector. I was forced to salt his corpse and burn it lest he rise after death and join Yellow-Eyes on the battlefield." He scrubbed a hand over his tired face. "I do not pretend to know your kind, Castiel, nor what you were flying from when Joanna's arrow found you, but I do know loss."

Dean reached into a velvet pouch at his belt and drew from it a small crook of twisted metal. "Give me your wrists," he said.

Castiel blinked his angelic eyes, brighter than stars. "I don't understand."

"The fire keeps you at bay and the gold binds your hands, but the manacles are not needed. They must chafe you; I've been in them enough times myself. So give me your wrists." Dean twiddled his outstretched fingers.

The Angelborn slowly turned, offering the lord his vulnerable back. Finally, Dean thought, some sign of trust. He held the prisoner's hands (they were perfect as Jo said, well-formed and graceful) and worked his lockpick in the iron gyves. The manacles fell with a clang on the hard ground. A thin thread of gold chain still wrapped round Castiel's wrists and held them fast, but his relief was palpable.

"They were heavy," he admitted, turning to face Dean once more.

Dean took that as the nearest to thanks he would receive from this creature. "I will return night next, if my brother can bribe the guard to be absent again. Perhaps, if you are not inclined to tell me more about your people, I will entertain you with stories of mine." He offered Castiel a half-bow and stepped gingerly from the fiery circle.

"I will not betray my brothers," Castiel said in his whetstone voice. "You could torture me for days and still I would not tell you the secrets of our army."

"Until this morning I did not believe there was an angelic army left," Dean sighed. "I certainly don't have plans to war with it. I have Yellow-Eyes to fight. What good would a patch of cloud be to me?"

"We do not live among clouds," Castiel said sullenly.

"Are all Angelborn as ill-tempered as you?" Dean asked, then flung up a hand. "Wait, no, don't tell me. Keep your secrets. Till tomorrow." And with that, Lord Winchester flung his cloak about his shoulders and left the dungeons.

When Samuel met him in the archery yard the next morning, his eyes were bright with hope. "Is the angel any nearer to agreeing to our terms?"

Dean notched his longbow, a sturdy specimen as tall as himself, and grunted. "I have a name, no more. Castiel."

Sam seemed to roll the name about on his tongue. "The songs never mention a Castiel as far as I know."

"Maybe he's done nothing to sing about," Dean said. He loosed his first arrow, missing the target's center, far left. "Damn this Highroad wind."

"It's not the wind, it's your troubled mind that ruins your shot," Sam chuckled. "You will not be deterred?" Dean knew he meant the angel, not the arrows.

"No. I will keep at him. The guardsman?"

"Handled. Be safe, brother. Angelborn are not like men."

"Thank the seven faces for that. I don't need more men to fight the Others, I need a myth."

That night at moonhigh, Dean opened the door to the dungeon to find Castiel still on his knees, gazing at him in shock. "You've returned?" the angel croaked.

"I said I would." Dean raised a flask of mint-water he'd brought from his quarters. "Do Angelborn thirst?"

Castiel lifted his chin high. "I do not require drink."

"You do not require it, but would you enjoy it?"

The angel frowned as if he didn't understand the difference between the two. Finally he said, "My throat is very dry."

Dean beckoned him to stand, and the angel struggled to his feet, his eyes fastened to Dean's hands as they uncorked the flask. Dean took a quick swig and raised his brows as if to say, _You see? Proof it isn't poisoned._

"How will I drink with my hands bound?" Castiel asked, and Dean replied, "I will be your hands." He stepped once more into the ring of Holy Fire, the flames licking but not catching at his leather breeches. Dean pressed the mouth of the flask to the angel's cracked lips, their eyes watching each other closely.

"Tip your head back," Dean commanded in a quiet voice. Castiel stood still as a statue for a long moment, stubborn from the line of his jaw to the toes of his boots. Dean shook his head. "I cannot unshackle you; you are not my prisoner."

"And yet your visits to me are clandestine," Castiel murmured, his mouth moving against the steel of the flask. "And I doubt these gifts you bring me have been approved by Lady Ellen."

"Water is not a gift. It's water. Now drink." Dean lifted the flask, and Castiel tipped back his head to receive the cool stream of mint-water that flowed from it. He drank slowly at first, then gulped as if he hadn't had a drink in years. His white throat worked under Dean's hands, and Dean watched it bob and swallow as he raised the flask ever higher. When the flask was drained, Dean took it away and grinned at the picture the Angelborn made, now flushed and panting, color high on his once-pale cheeks, his eyes brighter than ever. A thin trickle of mint-water had escaped his lips, running down his chin to drip down his sinewy neck. Without a thought, Dean cupped that chin in his hand and brushed away the drops of water with his thumb.

Castiel froze, even his ever-moving wings. His eyes went dark, and he turned his face from Dean's touch, shying away like a new horse.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, though he knew not why he apologized.

"Please, Lord Winchester," Castiel murmured, his eyes still fastened on the ground. "I cannot remain here beneath the earth. I must leave this place for the open air."

"So fight beside me," Dean hissed, lifting a hand before curling his hand into a fist and dropping it. "Help me and you will have all the air you could want."

"I cannot, I—I cannot," Castiel cried. "It is not of my choosing, you must believe me."

Dean's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean, not of your choosing? What plagues you, Cas? I can help you if you—"

"Please go." Castiel slumped, falling to his knees once more. His wings bowed low, scraping against the filthy stones. "If you won't free me, leave me be."

"I cannot do that. Lady Ellen will unshackle you only if you aid us in the war." Dean chewed at his lower lip. "I am sorry, Angelborn."

"Leave me," the angel repeated.

Dean tucked his empty flask into his cloak and stepped back out of the fire. "If you wish," he said. That night Dean's sleep was dogged by dreams of the angel's eyes, alight with cruel fire.

The next morning Dean rode with Ser Samuel into the forest, following Jo and her knights on a hunt for a Basilisk. When their horses had fallen back enough from the main party, Sam asked, "Headway?"

"Very little," Dean grunted. "Something prevents Cas from speaking freely. Whether it is his honor or something more, I do not know."

"Cas?" Sam's eyebrow bent into an arrowhead high on his brow.

Dean hid his discomfort by busying himself with an adjustment of his leather jerkin. "I talk fast, and his name is long."

"The guardsman I bought is convinced you spend your nights torturing the Angelborn for word on his armies." Sam grinned. "I would love to see the look on his face if he knew you were actually braiding the angel's hair and giving him pet names."

"Shut your mouth before I loosen your teeth."

"Does he have one for you? 'Dee' perhaps?" Sam teased.

"Sam—" Dean warned.

"Forgive me." Samuel stifled his laugh. "Will you go to him again tonight?"

"Yes. I have an idea, though—" Dean looked away from his brother's honest gaze. "You are better off not knowing."

Sam's good humor left him, and his face fell into his battle mask. "Brother, if you plan some foolishness—"

"Leave it, Sam. If it fails, it will be on my head. But I do not think it will."

"I pray you're right," Sam muttered.

That night, Dean descended the dungeon stairs with a bundle in his arms. He entered Castiel's cell to find the angel curled on his side on the floor, his wings tucked close to his body. Castiel lifted his head at Dean's entrance, his eyes widening, flicking between Dean's hard face and the burden he carried.

"I told you to leave me be," the Angelborn said, struggling onto his feet. "What is that you carry? A battle-axe for my neck?"

"Three times now I've come to you," Dean sighed, "and I have not harmed you yet. Why would this night be different?" He unwrapped the spare cloak from the thing he held: a small roughspun sack.

Castiel watched him like a hunter's hawk. "I don't know. Humans are fickle," he answered.

Dean's mouth curved into a smirk. "Cas," he said, hushed in the echoing cavern, "on what do angels swear?"

"Swear?" Castiel licked his chapped lips. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"When humans swear an oath, we swear on something we hold sacred. Our family's honor, or the graves of our ancestors," Dean offered. "On what sacred thing might you make such an oath?"

Castiel hesitated. "We hold nothing more sacred than the name of our Heavenly Father," he finally said. "Why?"

"Because I am going to ask you to swear to me," Dean murmured, "that tonight you will not try to injure me or any other human, nor will you flee."

"How could I even attempt such a thing?" asked the Angelborn.

"Do you give me your word?" Dean pressed. "Swear on your Father's name, and I promise I will wash the dirt from your wings."

Castiel drew back, his wings folding behind his shoulders. Dean could see the two warring desires in the angel's eyes: he ached to be clean (the stories always said angels strove for purity) and yet he was unwilling to bend to the will of a human. So proud, so beautiful, Dean thought.

At last Castiel spoke. "I swear to my Heavenly Father, if you do me this kindness tonight I will not repay you with rebellion."

Wordlessly, Lord Winchester took his dirk from his belt and stabbed a hole in the sack he carried. A steady stream of dry sand poured out, and he held it steadily over the holy fire, dousing the flames before him. Castiel watched stone-faced.

"Come," Dean beckoned with a gloved hand. "We must be swift."

Castiel did not move, save for a twitch of his filthy wings. "You are taking me from my cell?"

"I couldn't very well bring my tub down here, could I?" Dean unfolded the extra cloak he had brought and shook out its folds. He held it open, its fine black wool opening for Castiel like a storm cloud. "Now, come."

The angel stepped from the broken ring of fire on unsteady feet, his boots scraping on the uneven ground. His arms were still bound tight behind his back, and his wings folded even closer to his body. Dean draped the cloak over his shoulders and hooked the clasp—a black enameled impala—at his throat.

"If we are questioned, do not speak," Dean advised, pulling the cloak's hood over Castiel's head so that it kept his face in shadow. "Keep your wings close and still, understood?"

"Yes," Castiel rasped.

"Most would add a 'my lord' to that," Dean said with a sly smile.

Castiel bristled, his wings causing the cloak to shift and dance. "I have only one Lord, my Father."

"I know. That is why I do not ask you to speak my title." Dean reached out and took his elbow, feeling warm skin even beneath the wool of the voluminous cloak. "Stay near to me, Cas. I will guide you."

They walked up the steep dungeon stairs and through the Keep's courtyard, empty at this late hour. Only once were they stopped, by a night-watchman patrolling near the steps of the Grey Tower, which housed Dean's quarters.

"Who comes?" barked the watchman, to which Dean hollered, "Can the Lord of Hunterfell not even bring a comely wench to his bed without all of Harvelle's Blue Cloaks learning of it?"

"Apologies, my lord." The watchman cringed and stepped aside.

"You made him believe I was a woman you wished to bed," Castiel hissed once they were out of earshot.

"Yes. And?"

"It was a lie!"

"Of course it was. Does deception upset you?" Dean looked at him sideways, a smile playing on his lips.

"My kind consider it a grievous sin."

"The greater sin would be a pike through your unblemished face," Dean muttered. They turned the final bend in the stair and reached the door of Dean's rooms. He ushered the angel inside, watching over his shoulder to ensure they were not followed.

Castiel stood in the entryway of Dean's quarters, his blue eyes wide and unblinking. They took in the rich fabrics of the wall tapestries, the silks and furs piled on the mahogany bed, the sweet-smelling rushes under their feet, and lastly, the enormous copper tub that stood steaming in the middle of the flagstone floor. Beyond the fluttering gauze of the drapes, the balcony opened out to the night sky, ablaze with the waning moon and the constellations. Castiel's eyes closed in apparent rapture.

"I thought I'd never see the stars again," he said.

"Look all you like." Dean stepped behind him and reached around to unclasp his cloak, letting it fall away to the floor. "Perhaps you'd like to view them from the tub." He'd gone through enough grief ordering his page boy to fill the thing at moonrise; the lad was too curious for his own good; he wanted to know why my lord wished to bathe again that day, and at such a late hour, and why my lord did not need an attendant to wait on him as usual. Dean had been forced to dismiss him with a boot to his bottom.

"I trusted no servants with the sight of you," Dean said, "so it will be me assisting you, I'm afraid." He brought his dirk from his belt.

Castiel flinched away from Dean's dirk as it sought to cut away his white silk tunic. "Don't," he gasped. "Unchain me so I might unclothe myself."

Dean pursed his lips in a frown. "You swear to neither attack nor run?"

"I swear," Castiel said.

The lord hunter carded his fingers through his hair. "I'm mad for doing this," he whispered, "but you must think yourself mad for trusting me too. So we're even on that score." He sheathed his dirk and moved behind Castiel to unwind the thin gold necklace from his wrists. When it was done, the angel rubbed at his bruised wrists.

"How long were you bound?" Dean asked, unable to keep the sympathy from his voice.

"Eight days before you arrived," Castiel replied, rolling his shoulders with a wince. "Perhaps longer. I lost track in the dark of my prison." He lifted his hands to the laces on the flank of his tunic, but hissed in pain at the twist of his muscles.

"Here, let me." Dean undid the knots before starting in on the buckles of his battle leathers and silver ringmail. The gaps in the mail where the wings stuck through were tricky, but soon Dean found their hidden clasps. Cas stifled a gasp when Dean's hands found another bruise. Dean shushed him with nonsense sounds of comfort as he finished peeling away the silk.

"In the stories, they say the Angelborn feel no pain," Dean said.

" _They_ are clearly wrong," Castiel grated, peevish with humiliation. He shrugged out of his layers of clothing with Dean's help.

"I can see that. Do you not live forever either?" Dean knelt to unbuckle the silver shin-guards from Castiel's legs.

The angel looked down at him with a weary gaze. "I have lived many centuries," he said softly, "but I can be killed."

"Holy fire," Dean guessed.

"That is one way, yes." Castiel unlaced his breeches and eased them down his hips, his teeth gritted in pain.

Dean gazed upon the angel's nakedness. He'd nearly expected the Angelborn to be formed from cold ivory and stone, as in the stories, but Castiel's body was simply that of a man's. A very well-formed one, but a man nonetheless. The Angelborn was pale, his skin flecked with freckles, his nipples small, tight, a dusky copper. His torso was long, his hipbones sharp and jutting, his cock a soft shape in its tangle of dark curls. If it weren't for the white wings stretching out to their full span, Dean may have thought him human.

"Lord Winchester?" Castiel prompted.

Dean shook himself from his reverie, dropping his eyes. "No smallclothes to speak of after all, I see," he said, the gruffness in his voice masking his slip. He stood and waved toward the bath. "Climb in, Cas, and sit midpoint to make room for your wings."

The angel stepped into the steaming water with Dean's assistance, slipping down against the side of the copper tub until he was submerged to mid-torso, knees pulled to his chest to fit. His wings cut through the water like the oars of some great ship, soaking the lower feathers. Castiel ducked beneath the surface, bringing his wings down with him before re-emerging with a loud gasp. He wiped a hand across his eyes.

"So warm," he murmured, tipping his wet head back against the lip of the tub in apparent pleasure.

"I told the boy to bring it boiling. I thought you'd appreciate that," Dean said, pulling a small cushioned stool beside the tub so he could attend his guest.

"I do," Castiel said. His bright blue eyes flicked up to meet Dean's gaze, softening like the summer snows on the rooftops of Hunterfell. "Lord Winchester—" He shook his head, seemingly unable to speak further.

Dean leant forward, resting his forearms on the warm metal of the tub's lip. "It's Dean, remember. You may speak your mind here, Cas."

The Angelborn's wings dragged through the steaming water, swirling the bath into small eddies. Castiel lowered his head. "The length of my wings makes it difficult—" he tried, then began again. "It is customary for a warrior's garrison-brothers to—" He bit his lip and lapsed into silence.

Dean traced his fingertips down the angel's shoulder-blade to where one wing sprouted from his back, matted with dirt and blood. Castiel stiffened at the touch, sitting up straight as an arrow. "Shall I wash them for you? I am no brother of yours, I know, but I'm your only option at the moment."

Dean did not wait for an answer, instead selecting a cake of lemon soap from a nearby reed basket and working it into a lather between his palms. He began with the wingroots, where the vulnerable joints fluttered under his fingers as if he were cupping ravens in his hands. The dirt washed away to reveal thick white feathers limed with silver. Dean continued working up the great arc of the left wing, sloughing away the grime, untangling the knots, soothing the hurts with a balm of meadowsweet and dreamleaf from the basket. He went slowly, his hands careful, for every tug caused Castiel to shudder in the water.

The Angelborn curled into himself, his forehead resting on his upturned knees, his arms wrapped round his legs. Dean wished to look upon his face; he feared he was causing the angel pain.

"Does it hurt so much?" Dean asked, his voice quiet. A hush had fallen in the room, the trickle of water the only sound for so long.

Castiel made a noise, small and soft. Still he hid his face.

Dean groped for more words to fill the silence while his hands trailed along the damp feathers. "Your wings. I've never seen the like. Do all angels fly on wings of white, or are you as rare as a girl with ivory-blonde braids?"

"I am considered very plain among my brothers," Castiel murmured. He turned his head to rest his cheek on his knees, his eyes finding Dean's as Dean reached across the tub to wash a far-flung pinion. "And you, Winchester? Our songs painted you as ugly and cruel, but you seem," he paused, "not at all poxy to me." His eyes fell to Dean's mouth.

"Why Cas, I'm flattered you noticed." Dean allowed a smile to overtake his lips. "If you would consent to fight beside me, you would be able to say you fought for the comeliest lord in the north. Not that that's saying much, given my Northmen's penchant for snow-crusted beards."

He reached for the sweep of Castiel's right wing, but it leapt from his grasp. The wing shied further away, and Dean followed it, not realizing how close he'd come to the angel until it was too late. Dean leaned over half the length of the tub, his hands braced on either side, his face inches from Castiel's. The Angelborn tilted his head, his eyes boring into Dean's. Dean wondered if the creature could divine his thoughts and whether they would anger him.

Castiel's hand rose from the bathwater to cup Dean's jaw. His touch was warm and wet from the water, steady and strong as was his nature. Dean swallowed. His thoughts must have been as loud as drums.

"Lord Winchester," Castiel breathed. "Dean," he said, strangled.

"Yes?" Dean didn't dare move, didn't dare blink. The Angelborn's eyes were so blue, brighter than the sapphires King Robert wore on his fingers.

"I cannot take up my sword for you," Castiel spoke in his whetstone voice. His fingers slid down Dean's jaw, a gentle caress. "Please do not ask it of me."

"But why?"

Castiel held the point of Dean's stubbled chin and studied his face. "My Lord Father is so very cruel," he whispered, "if this is how he chooses to test me."

"I don't understand," Dean said, his voice choked from his throat.

The angel spoke in a clear, cold voice. "I was sent to Westeros by the Heavenly Host on a mission, but I rebelled. I could not bring myself to carry out such a deed, even though the archangels themselves demanded it. So I took flight, thinking to go as far from my wretched fate as I could. But it appears I cannot escape it." Castiel's eyes were bright as fire and deep as the sea.

"What fate?" Dean asked.

Castiel closed his eyes, bathwater dripping from his dark lashes. "I was tasked with your assassination, Sellslord."

Dean blinked. "Why would the angels want me dead? I am not their enemy."

"The world has changed since our Heavenly Father created it," Castiel said in a hushed voice. "The people worship the new gods. Our Father has fallen into distant memory. The armies of angels have moved beyond the veil, away from the lands we once protected. And now, as I discovered, the archangels mean to wipe the map clean."

Dean stared at Castiel, his eyes wide with disbelief. "They would have the Others take us?"

"Yes. My brothers would welcome the fall of Westeros. They believe it will allow my kind to return to power. When I was chosen to be your killer, I was _proud_ to have the honor. But then I flew beyond the veil and saw—how did you put it?—the children playing in the rivers and the smallfolk tending their cattle and I wondered, how could we allow the destruction of my Father's beautiful creations? I decided I wanted no part of it. So I abandoned my mission and flew south, thinking to go far from you and Hunterfell. But I failed. And all that stands now between the Demon King's hoard and the Seven Kingdoms is you." Cas gazed up at him. "The Righteous Man, our songs name you, mocking your plight."

Castiel's fingers moved to grip Dean's throat, an insistent press, but no more. Dean's eyes widened and his breath held. "And the cruelty of it is, I could so easily kill you now while we are here alone. I could return to my brothers a hero if I wished." He dropped his trembling hand, sinking it into the steaming bathwater.

"But you swore you would not harm me tonight, and you do not lie," Dean said, his hands finding Castiel's beneath the water and holding them there. "I can protect you, Castiel. I am not frightened."

"You should be," the angel said sharply. "The archangels will send another to murder you after enough time passes without my report. And if I took the battlefield with you as you ask, word of it would eventually reach the Heavens. I would be branded a traitor and executed for my crimes. I wished only to slip away to the Scorched Desert or the Empty Isles where I might find safety."

Dean considered this for a moment, his thumbs working over the fine bones of Castiel's wrists. "Thank you, Cas, for telling me this. I see now why you cannot accept my terms; I do not wish to see you dead either." His jaw tightened.

Castiel ducked his head. Bathwater ran down his neck in a fine rivulet. "You think me a coward," he said quietly.

Dean lifted his hand and rubbed it, wet and warm, across his weary face. "I think you are a rare angel indeed, to rebel against Heaven's plan." He reached for the nearest silvered feather of Castiel's shining wings, stroking down the soft line of it. "And I cannot begrudge you wanting to save your skin. It is a very pleasant skin, after all." Dean's eyes fell to the angel's wet mouth once more.

"Your eyes," Castiel said, forcing Dean's gaze back to meet his own. "We call that color 'wine-bottle green' where I come from. It is truly rare." His wings stretched out, folding around Dean and arching over his head. "Much rarer than I." He stood then, the water sloughing off the planes of his stomach and thighs. His wings folded under Dean's forearms, urging him to find his feet as well. Dean followed Cas's lead, his eyes tracking over his glistening chest. Castiel watched him in turn.

"Damn you, angel," Dean said with appreciation warming his voice. "When humans speak of another's eyes or stare as intently as you do now, what follows is usually a feather-bed. Don't tempt me when—" Dean glanced down to find the Angelborn's cock twitching and filling to an impressive length. "Oh," he said rather breathlessly.

"Do you wish to take me, Lord Winchester?" Castiel asked. His wings fluttered again, stretching to their full span, dripping droplets of water. "Might we steal tonight for ourselves before I am returned to my prison and you to your war?"

"Is it not a sin for your kind to lay with a human?" Dean returned, the question tumbling from his mouth before he could think.

Castiel looked down, his long lashes hiding his burning eyes. "It is no sin to my mind. You have shamed me with your kindness these past few—"

"I do not need your flesh as payment," Dean snapped, a flush fighting its way up his neck.

The angel looked up at that, his eyes dark and sad. His wings closed around him, robing him in feathers and hiding his nakedness from Dean's gaze. "Shall I leave, then?"

"No, by the seven, I only meant—" Dean grabbed hold of the thick feathered wings as if they were the wrists of a lover who would otherwise slip away. "Of course I want you in my bed, I would have to be mad to refuse you. And yet perhaps I am mad, as I've said, for I will refuse if you think this repays some debt you do not carry."

"I offer myself freely," Castiel whispered, his hands finding Dean's face and cupping it. "Your heart is pure and your soul shines. That is reason enough."

Dean huffed, his eyes darting away. "I have done my share of misdeeds. I am no septon."

"My thanks to the Heavenly Father for that," Castiel murmured and pressed his mouth to Dean's.

The bed was soft and large enough for two men grown, but Dean was especially grateful for the sable furs that were heaped upon it. When Castiel was laid out on those, he shone pale and perfect. Dean was reminded of the fresh snowfalls of home.

"Cas." Dean's mouth ran dry, but the Angelborn seemed to understand. He pulled Dean's body, now bare, against his own and said, "I enjoy the sight of you, too."

There was a bottle of sandalwood bath oil in the reed basket. Dean dribbled it over their hands and stomachs and cockheads, perfuming their skin with its spiced scent. He rubbed it between Cas's legs, mouthing at his sac as he worked. Castiel cried out in a voice like song.

"Are all angels so loud when they fuck?" Dean asked, flush with pride, his eyes laughing as he looked up the long expanse of Castiel's body.

"I don't know," Cas answered. He gasped for breath, his head snapping back into a pillow as Dean sought another lick. "I've never—ah!—never had occasion to find out."

Dean pressed another kiss to the inside of his milk-white thigh and lifted his head. "You mean to say you haven't—?" His eyes were round with surprise. "Not even with another of your kind?"

Castiel's wings rustled, a shiver running through them. Blue eyes sought the ceiling. "Don't read too much into it, Winchester. I am still young for an Angelborn, and if I am to die in Lady Ellen's prison—" He caught his lip between his teeth and hissed in a breath as Dean continued to lick at his cock.

"I won't have you die a virgin, Cas, don't worry." Dean grinned against his skin. "But one would think, after a few hundred years...."

"The Others take my few hundred years," Cas growled, his fingers threading into Dean's short hair. "Don't stop. Have me." And Dean did.

Dean had him with his legs spread and writhing beneath him; had him bent over with Dean mounting him like an animal; had him sitting speared in his lap. Every way was a revelation for Castiel, whose wings beat the air like those of a helpless bird whenever Dean kissed him.

"Don't stop," Cas kept pleading, and Dean didn't, not until the angel was spent twice over, his belly slick with his seed. Only then did Dean bury himself to the root in Castiel's pliant body and finish with his name on his lips.

"Lord Winchester," Cas murmured against his neck as they sank into the furs.

"Dean," he corrected. His eyes were heavy as if he'd drained a dozen cups of wine. "Rest now, Cas." Dean wrapped an arm round his unearthly charge and took his own advice.

It wasn't until the first light of morning filtered through the drapes that Dean pried open his eyes. His arms were filled with warm angel and soft feathers. Castiel lay cradled against his chest, his eyes open to mere slits like a cat, watching Dean from beneath the fall of his lashes.

"You watch over me as I sleep, angel?" Dean mumbled, his voice still thick from dreams.

"I do not need sleep," he said, "and I wanted to—" He looked away, his eyes dropping to the dark furs bunched beneath them. "—look upon you while I still can."

Dean's heart lurched in his chest. Castiel slipped from his arms to stand tall beside the bed, his back to Dean, wings spread wide. He looked like an illuminated drawing in some ancient text.

"Dawn is coming," Castiel said in a voice like a blade sharpening on a stone, so far removed from the voice he'd used while tangled in the bedclothes. "You should return me to the dungeon before the castle wakes and the next day's guard finds me missing."

Dean sat up in bed, his throat dry. "Cas—"

"Please don't draw this out any longer," the angel said. He stepped toward the copper tub and cupped the now-cooled water in his hands, sloughing the stains of their lovemaking from his skin. "It would be very cruel of you." He dressed in his mail and leathers with brusque movements. Dean watched from the bed.

"I don't wish to cause you pain," Dean said quietly. Tears pricked the backs of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

"I know." Castiel retrieved the golden necklace from the floor and strode back to the bed, offering it to Dean. "Here. You'll have to bind me again."

Dean took the fragile chain like a man in a dream, staring up at Cas with wide eyes. Castiel turned around, crossing his wrists behind his back and offering them to Dean. Still Dean did not move.

Cas turned to look over his shoulder, his bright eyes burning blue. "Why do you hesitate?"

Without answering, Dean looped the necklace round his own wrist and hauled himself from the pile of furs. He padded naked across the chamber to a chest set against the far wall, which he opened to retrieve a long, slender sword.

Castiel sucked in a breath. "Pinion," he whispered.

"So it does have a name," Dean mused. He rose and returned to Castiel, examining the blade. The weapon was forged from some metal Dean had never seen, bright as silver yet hard as iron. The hilt and pommel were chased in gold scrollwork, forming some language Dean did not know. "I found it in the armory. I had thought to give it back to you once I convinced you to fight for me." He shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. "And if I couldn't convince you, I thought to keep it for myself."

Cas's jaw tightened. Dean chuckled.

"Don't be angry, Cas. Like you, I've changed my mind." He held out the blade, offering the pommel. "Take it."

The angel reached for it despite the misgivings written clearly on his face. "I don't understand."

"I can't throw you back in the dungeon," Dean said. "And I can't ask you to give up your life for my war. So take your sword and go. You wanted freedom, now you have it."

"But why?" Castiel clasped his sword's hilt and Dean's hand together, forcing Dean to look him in the face. "And how, when you are honor-bound to keep Lady Ellen's prisoners safely in her possession?"

Dean heaved a sigh and raked a hand over his face. "Because I—" He shook his head as if surprised at himself. "Because if you think humans are worthy of being saved, we should prove you right. _I_ should prove you right."

Castiel searched his face for a long moment. "Dean—"

Dean silenced him with a kiss that spoke of farewell. His lips lingered against Castiel's as they separated. "Take this as well," he said, bending to retrieve the black wool cloak from the floor. "You will need to hide your wings in the Free Cities." He clasped the black enamel impala at the base of the angel's white throat, his hands slow to leave him. "Go, please. Stay alive, Cas."

Castiel nodded, brushing a gentle hand down Dean's jaw. He slid his sword into the strange scabbard at his side. "I will not forget this." His wings beat once, twice, their astonishing strength bearing Cas into the air, his feet lifting from the ground. Dean watched him rise with an unreadable look on his face.

Cas bent to brush one last kiss against Dean's lips, then flew through the balcony door and into the lightening sky as fast as a raven. Dean stayed there, looking out from the balcony until Castiel was just a speck on the horizon. And he stayed even after Castiel had flown from view.

The knock at his door was not unexpected, but Dean did not move to answer it. His voice lay silent in his throat. Samuel let himself in anyway.

"Stranger's face, Dean, put on some clothes! The angel has escaped his cell!"

"I know," Dean said. He still looked to the sky, strangely unwilling to tear his eyes away, but he knew from the long pause that his brother was taking in the scene: the cold bathwater, the mussed bedclothes, the open chest against the wall, the emptied vials of oil and balm, the smattering of white feathers on the flagstones.

"Oh Dean, no," Sam whispered. "You didn't." Another long pause where Dean couldn't turn to face him. "You did? You freed the Angelborn?" Sam's voice rose in pitch and volume. "How could you be so stupid!?"

"Yes," said a low voice from the doorway. "I would also like to know."

Dean spun to find Lady Ellen herself standing there behind a gaping Sam. She stood like a warrior even in her blue velvet and gold lace gown; it was no mystery where her daughter had gotten her resolve. It shown on Ellen's face even now, a dangerous calm.

"My lady—" Dean began, but she stopped him with a wave of her arm.

"Dean," she said (for she never bothered with titles, not when it came to Dean, her longtime ally), "cover yourself, boy. I want you decent while I dress you down."

Dean obliged, yanking on his leather breeches as Ellen kept her eyes fastened on the rushes. "Lady Ellen, I—"

"I should put you in chains in that Angelborn's stead," Ellen seethed. "That was my hostage you set free. Do you understand? This is, for all intents and purposes, an act of war between our houses."

"No, please, my lady," Sam begged. "Dean didn't—"

Ellen whirled on Samuel and may have given him a tongue-lashing as well, but for Jo's panicked entrance. The girl ran from the hallway, panting for breath, her hands braced on her knees. She seemed not to notice her mother's red face or Dean's state of half-dress.

"Whatever the matter is, child, it will have to wait," Ellen snapped.

"No, it won't," Jo gasped. "We've had a raven. The Others have broken the line at the Wall and are even now ravaging the towns to the North."

"What!" Dean steeled his jaw. "We must gather our men. We'll ride today."

"Not until you answer for your crime, Winchester," Ellen said.

"Lady Ellen," Sam said, appealing to her with his most childlike face, the one he knew she loved, "my brother can pay for his misdeed by languishing in a cell, or he can defend your lands and answer to you when the battle is done."

"Please, my lady," Dean said in a voice steeped in darkness. "Let my sword do its work. Then you may do with me what you will."

Ellen pursed her lips and glanced at her daughter, who pleaded with her eyes. "So be it. But you best win this war, Dean." A small smile curled her lips, betraying her affection. "And if you take any prisoners, remember to hold them, all right?"

Three days' hard ride later, Dean was ahorse on a grassy ridge overlooking a deep valley. He wore his armor shined to a black dragonglass sheen, and his helm with the wicked, twisting impala's horns protected his head. Silverstrike was a comfortable weight in his hand.

"You chose well," Sam said from behind him. "Our archers will have a clear shot of their front line from here. You insist on leading the vanguard?"

"Always," Dean said. He glanced beyond Sam, where a mass of soldiers waited restlessly on the ridge, a living blanket of men across the grass. Seven thousand in all, less than a fifth of that horsed knights. The scouts had said the Others were fifteen thousand at least. The odds were not good, but there was no turning back. This was their best chance for bringing down a large swath of the demon's army.

Dean watched his younger brother don his own helm in the shape of an impala's head. How he wished Sam would leave the battlefield and ride back to the Keep where it was safe, but the boy refused to listen. Damn the Winchester spirit.

"Sound the horn, Sam," Dean said. "It's time."

Just as Sam brought the curved horn to his lips, a shout went up among the archers in the far right flank. The commotion spread through the ranks, each knight and sellsword adding his voice and pointing at the blinding sun. Dean blinked up at the sky.

"What do they see?" he demanded. "A raven?"

"No." Sam stood in his stirrups, taller than a tree, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "That is no raven."

The dark stain against the sun grew nearer and larger, coalescing into a familiar shape. Dean sheathed Silverstrike, his mouth open in disbelief. He dismounted just as the Angelborn came to land on silent feet before his horse.

"My lord," Castiel said. His silver plates and guards shone in the sunlight, his feathers glinting like a crystal prism. Over his heart, covering the triple cross sigil, the black enamel impala—the clasp from the cloak Dean had gifted him—stood rampant and proud. Shouts and cheers went up from the ragged band of Northmen.

"Cas," Dean breathed. "What are you—?"

"Does an angel fight on the side of the North?" a knight near the fore shouted. Samuel gestured for quiet, but the men still called for the Angelborn's blessing.

Cas pinned Dean with a bright blue stare and dropped to one knee, his sword in his hand. "I am yours to command, Lord of Hunterfell," he said in a booming voice. "Only say the word, and I shall fight this horde with all my strength."

Dean had never heard such a noise. Seven thousand men banging their swords and spears against their shields, shouting for joy, claiming deliverance from the old god Himself. Still, in all the chaos, Dean could only search his angel-lover's beautiful face for a hint that this might be a dream.

"You forfeit your life to your people by joining me here," Dean choked out. "Castiel, don't do this, please—"

"What good are my immortal years," Castiel said, "if they are not spent at your side?" He stared up at Dean, unblinking and unashamed of his admission. Dean had never seen the like; no human was so fearless with his heart. "If I die today, or tomorrow, or an eon from now, I will die knowing I acted true."

Dean stared down at him for a long moment, his helm shading his face from all eyes. Then he took Silverstrike in hand and held it aloft, turning to the assembled men. A hush fell over the army.

"Men of the North!" Dean shouted. "Today we fight!" He glanced over his shoulder at Cas before roaring, "With Heaven on our side!"

The cheers were deafening, a frenzied drumbeat. Dean turned to Cas and offered him a gauntleted hand. The angel rose to his feet, his eyes, for once, the peaceful blue of a deep lake. In the distance, the black line of Others crested into the valley. A warning cry went up as the archers notched their bows.

"Will they sing songs of us?" Dean asked, his hand closing its obsidian-armored fingers round the angel's fine-boned hand. "If at sundown we still breathe?"

"We shall," Cas said, drawing his sword. "And they will."

 

 

 

 

 

fin

>   
> 
> 
> Game of Thrones, fuck my life, it's a good series and you should check it out if you have even an inkling of love for fantasy stories. I almost feel bad for twisting Game of Thrones into this silly story, but I'm not sorry enough. Castiel in armor. Yes. Right? YES.

> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my little doodle of Supernatural fantasy. Comments are nom, crit is nom, please give me a shout. Thank you for reading.  
> 

  



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